


Against the dying of the light

by stephantom



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Alternate Universe - Valjean Survives, Christmas, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephantom/pseuds/stephantom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Christmases, 1833 onward, in the Pontmercy/Gillenormand/Valjean household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1833

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/gifts), [chanveries](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=chanveries).



> Written for the [Les Mis Trick or Treat Exchange](http://lmtrickortreat.tumblr.com/), for Chanveries' prompt: "Post-canon AU: Valjean lives and spends Christmas with Marius, Cosette, their kid(s), and the Gillenormand household (and Javert if you want to keep him alive, too), and becomes overwhelmed by happiness he feels he doesn't deserve."
> 
> Title is taken from the poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas, which you can read (and listen to!) [here](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night). I like to think that the title neatly communicates my stance feelings about the ["La décroissance crépusculaire" (or "The Dying of The Twilight")](https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/h/hugo/victor/lesmis/book5.8.html) section of the brick.

_“Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof;  
But only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”_

The old Latin rumbled through the pews, intoned in unison by the congregation. The priest, in his white Christmas vestment, came forward bearing the Eucharist; a choir boy started singing, a clear, sweet sound that soared up into the high vaults of the cathedral, and those nearest the altar began to form a queue.

Cosette Pontmercy sat near the back of the church, her husband Marius to her right, and to her left, her father, Jean Valjean. Both men were on their knees, Marius with an upright posture, watching the proceedings with a dreamy expression, Jean Valjean with his shaggy white head bent low over tightly clasped hands. Cosette, meanwhile, was excused from kneeling, for she was expecting a child, and the doctor had told her it might be any day now.

For Cosette, the first months of pregnancy had been filled only with happy anticipation. Imagine, to create an entirely new person from yourself! A thinking, feeling being, a child that would grow into an adult, and see and learn and love and do any number of things,because of you—you who had been a child yourself not so long ago. She had been eager to tell the news to everyone around her, Marius, of course, and Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand, their friends, their servants, and everyone she met. Above all, she had wanted to tell her father. 

But May and June came and went without a word from him, even when she wrote, urging him to visit (these letters did not contain the news, for she wanted to tell him face to face). “Cosette, my love, don’t think about it,” Marius had told her. “He will come to see us if and when he wants to. It would be for the best, I truly believe, if you put him from your mind.” His words did little to comfort Cosette; if anything, they only agitated her more, for they brought to mind the strangeness that had come to characterize their last interactions with her father ( _Monsieur Jean_ , as he would have it). Eventually, she decided to seek him out on her own.

She found him sick and weakened nearly to the point of death. Shaken, but defiant, she resolved on the spot to see him returned to health. She was afraid, though, that she might not manage it alone, unable as she was to comprehend the source of his malady. When she brought a doctor to examine him, the diagnosis only troubled her further: "He needs to eat, madame! I can't see that there's anything else wrong with him but lack of nourishment." Cosette had nodded and managed to keep herself collected long enough to see the doctor out; then the tears came. “I have always loved my black corner,” she recalled her father saying once, months ago, the day he became _Jean._ And it was true—his cold and empty room without a carpet or a fire, the hard, black bread he had once tried to tell her he deserved. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered as he slept, smoothing back the white curls on his forehead. “I do not understand you!”

Every day, she visited; every day, she would read to him, talk to him, watch him eat his meals. Some days he would protest, urge her to go home to her life and _live_ ; other days, he was silent and passive as a child. Her continued presence dismayed him, but nonetheless seemed to give him strength. And then there was her news. His eyes lit up when she told him, and he smiled, a true and happy, if tremulous, smile.

“I want the baby to meet you, Papa,” she said to him (it would be a girl, she thought). “I want her to have you in her life. And I won’t call you Monsieur Jean anymore, not ever again! I don’t care what you or Marius say. You will be _Grandpapa_ to this child and to any that come after.” The old man heard this, and hid his face as he wept.

Cosette’s determination to hold onto him caused a rift between her and Marius. She told him only that she had gone to see her father, and that he was ill; she could not bring herself to elaborate further. Marius had offered his sympathies and quickly changed the subject. As the days wore on and Cosette continued making daily trips to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, Marius grew agitated and sullen. Why should she leave him and go out by herself _every day_ to visit the man? It could not be necessary. But when she asked him to accompany her, he refused. It was painful to quarrel with Marius, and confusing and lonely. To be her father’s only support, without any support herself from her only other friend! She wondered how she would continue to bear it.

This rift might have grown great enough to cause their marriage permanent damage, had it not happened that one Sunday, as the couple was walking home from mass, they chanced upon a familiar figure. Marius, dumbfounded, had accosted the man there in the street. "Inspector! My god, it _is_ you! But you are dead!" The man had regarded him with an odd, unreadable expression. "Dead? I would have said the same of you, monsieur. No, I am not dead. Nor is it 'Inspector' now." After a long and extraordinary conversation with this individual (the first of many to come), Marius had gone at once with Cosette to see Jean Valjean, begging his forgiveness, and begging him too to come and live with them in their house. Jean Valjean, with much difficulty it seemed, had agreed.

And so it was that, some six months later, Jean Valjean was with them for Christmas Mass, taking Holy Communion and raising his voice in prayer beside them, and returned home with them to their grand house on Rue des Fille-du-Calvaire in the Marais. 

 

Christmas dinner was an impressive display: salmon, oysters, crepes, a great big roasted turkey stuffed with walnuts, and a yule log for dessert. As no one had wanted to cause Cosette any undue stress, no guests had been invited, but still Gillenormand insisted on a proper Christmas feast. Thus, when supper was ended, Jean Valjean, leaving Marius, his aunt and grandfather, and Cosette in the drawing room, slipped into the kitchen to speak to the cook about what food could be preserved, and if he might be allowed to give away to the poor anything that was certain to go to waste. The cook, at first puzzled, then charmed by the idea, agreed to set some things aside for him to take in the morning. Satisfied, Valjean made his way back to the drawing room and peaked in to observe the family.

They had gathered near the fireplace at one end of the large room, and were now talking and laughing as they exchanged gifts. For a long moment, Valjean hesitated on the threshold. They seemed to him like figures from a painting, a painting of a world he had never imagined entering. If Jean le Cric had been granted a fleeting vision of the future and had glimpsed just this moment, he would have recognized nothing of it, and been utterly perplexed; he would not have seen a place for himself anywhere near it. 

Cosette, spying Valjean in the doorway, smiled and waved him in, and so he made his way quietly over to the group, choosing a simple wooden chair beside Cosette, who was sitting with her legs stretched out on the chaise lounge.

As the others went on chatting, his gaze drifted continually toward Cosette with concern, noting the way she sometimes subtly grimaced or touched a hand briefly to her forehead or her stomach. A frightful thought kept recurring in his mind: _women can die from childbirth_. Perhaps she should not have gone to church this morning; she should have spent the day in bed, should be in bed now.

He wondered helplessly what could be done to protect her. He had been her protector once, after all. But now it was she who protected him. Since Cosette found him on his deathbed in July, he had gone from a near-corpse to something of a ghost, drifting from room to room in this big, lavish house, out of place and gloomy, haunting the steps of its rightful inhabitants with his unnatural presence. And in that time, Cosette had never ceased trying to tend to him, coaxing him out into sunlight, giving him however much space or company he needed. He was healthy now, he thought, as healthy as he would ever be; he had regained most of his old weight. Could he not now be her protector once more? 

“Father, you look pale,” said Marius, interrupting his thoughts. Valjean blinked, coming out from his thoughts slowly. He looked up at Marius with a mild smile. _Marius_. Marius was Cosette’s protector now. 

“I’m fine,” said Valjean.

Marius nodded, fidgeting with a rather large package wrapped in brightly colored paper. In the next moment, Valjean found this package suddenly thrust toward him. “This is for you."

Valjean's eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thank you, Marius," he said, and took the gift, looking down at it with an obscure expression for several seconds.

“Well, open it, Papa,” Cosette laughed. Valjean glanced at her and smiled, taking the opportunity to once more assess her condition; at the moment, she seemed content, comfortable.

The package contained a stack of several leather-bound books, held together loosely by a string. Valjean read the topmost title aloud. “ _Paradise Lost_ , by John Milton, translated by Jacques Delille.” Carefully, he shifted the books in his lap to examine the spines, his eyes running over the familiar authors: Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Rousseau, Voltaire, Leibniz, Locke, Vigny, Chenier, Chateaubriand, Lamartine. Lastly, a book on Napoleon. “Have you read all of these?”

“Not all,” Marius admitted. “Many were recommended to me by friends.” A kind of shadow came into his eyes, and Valjean thought of that day in June, more than a year ago, all those bright, determined young men. Marius directed his gaze to Cosette, perhaps for strength, as he continued, “Cosette told me that you used to keep a great collection of books. I thought you might like to start one here.”

“Thank you,” Valjean repeated, with quiet sincerity, opening _Paradise Lost_ to the first page. It had been many years since he read it, back in the early days of Montreuil-sur-Mer. It seemed almost a different lifetime.

Marius reclaimed his seat beside his grandfather, who raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“That is quite a pile,” the old man announced. “What sorts of nonsense have you given him, Marius?" Then turning to Valjean, he added, "Of course, I know one can't help being a learned man. I had an old acquaintance, you know, a Monsieur Boulard, who was a learned man, too. He was always carrying some volume or other under his arm.”

Valjean favored Gillenormand with a quick smile as he set the books aside gently. It still amazed him that a man of Gillenormand's status and politics could welcome a man like Jean Valjean into his home, even after being told everything—or if not everything, enough. Even more astonishing, he had helped Marius obtain a pardon for Valjean, and then gone on treating him as if he knew nothing of it. Valjean could not understand how this could be true, and yet it was. He had the proof in his pocket; he carried this impossible document with him everywhere.

Marius shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. Mademoiselle Gillenormand had chimed in to recount with scorn what she had heard through Mademoiselle Vaubois about some recent scandalous novel that was being passed around among young women.

Valjean turned his attention back to Cosette and caught her stifling a yawn. She glanced at him with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

He smiled back gently. “It is all of us who should apologize to you for keeping you up,” he said, quietly enough for only her to hear. Across the room, Gillenormand had interrupted his niece and was now pontificating theatrically to her and Marius about something or other.

“No, I enjoy the distraction,” said Cosette, taking his hand. “Besides, it is Christmas. Imagine staying in bed for all of Christmas!”

“Yes,” he said. “Well, if you like, I have a small—” he pulled away from her to reach under his chair for a present.

“Ooh, how exciting!” She took it from him happily, pulling the strings and paper away.

“It’s for the baby,” said Valjean. “I know she won’t be old enough yet, but—”

“Oh, Papa, she is _lovely_.”

She held in her hands a porcelain doll with long, dark hair and little hazel eyes, dressed in a pretty blue dress and bonnet, tall enough to reach up to Cosette’s knees if stood on the floor.

“Do you like her?” asked Valjean. “The child will be too young for it for some time, but I saw it and couldn’t resist. I thought she looked a little—”

“She looks like Catherine,” finished Cosette with a far-away look in her eyes. Valjean swallowed. He had not been certain Cosette even remembered Catherine, the little doll he’d bought her so many years ago. It had been left behind at their first home, that night the Paris police caught up with him.

Cosette stroked the long dark hair of the doll pensively. “She was a Christmas present too, wasn’t she?” She looked up at Valjean, who found he could not speak. “I can almost remember. Was that when—” she began to ask, but then hesitated, biting her lip anxiously. 

Cosette knew the truth now, about him, about her true parentage and the circumstances of his taking her into his care, all of it. Javert had answered many questions for her while Valjean was ill. Valjean knew this, but he did not like to remember; he understood Javert's reasons, agreed even—Cosette deserved the truth from them—but it still seemed to him sometimes that it was too great a burden for her, all that awful history, too dark and heavy for one as full of light and love as Cosette. And then there was the simpler, selfish reason: he was ashamed of what he had been, and it pained him to know that she knew of it.

He looked away at the floor. Cosette squeezed his hand, and then turned back to the doll.

“You know, Papa, it might be a boy!” she laughed suddenly. “What if he thinks himself too important for dolls?”

Valjean smiled. “I have more gifts.”

“You mean to spoil my children, don’t you?” Shaking her head with a small smile, she set the doll down gently. “Thank you, Papa. The baby will love her, I’m certain of it.”


	2. 1834

Outside the church, the world was covered in a light dusting of snow, and the white-capped rooftops and lampposts, catching the late morning sunlight, seemed to shimmer. Little Sophie Pontmercy turned her head this way and that, twisting in her grandfather’s arms to take in all the sights: the buildings, the bustling carriages and horses, the people exiting the church dressed in fine Christmas clothes. Jean Valjean saw it all through the child’s eyes. When she smiled, it seemed to him that that he could feel that selfsame joy reverberate inside of him; when she laughed, he felt that he would burst.

“What a fine morning!” said Marius. He gave a satisfied sigh that was visible in the brisk air, and then exclaimed, “It’s freezing! I’ll fetch us a cab.”

A pair of churchgoing ladies passing by stopped to fawn over Sophie. “What a lovely little girl!” they said. Sophie, being a sweet-tempered and friendly little being, smiled back at them benevolently. “And no wonder!" declared one of the ladies. "She has a lovely mother!”

Cosette smiled graciously. “Oh, thank you!”

“And you, you are the grandfather?” the woman asked, turning to Valjean, who simply smiled. Often when he went out in public with the Pontmercys, he kept apart, or trailed behind, feeling himself an unpleasant and awkward addition to the picturesque young family. But he could not hold onto these thoughts when entrusted with holding the baby; they melted away to nothing like ice in the warm sun.

A hand touched his back and he turned to see what was by this time a familiar and welcome face.

“I spotted you inside,” said Javert, nodding at the church.

“Yes, I saw you too.”

“Oh, Monsieur Javert!” said Cosette. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, madame,” returned Javert gravely.

“Will you be joining us for Christmas dinner this evening?”

Javert’s eyes slid briefly back to Jean Valjean, who smiled encouragingly.

“I would be honored, madame. In the meantime, if you would care to join me, Valjean…?”

“Yes, of course.”

For the last several months, the two men had taken to going on weekly long walks around the city, talking and giving alms. Shortly after running into Marius the previous summer, Javert had gone to the Gillenormand household to inquire after Jean Valjean, and found the man himself. A tenuous friendship began that day, with Javert introducing himself—as a new man he hoped—to the man that had thrown his world into disarray.

“Here, we are," said Marius. "Oh, good morning, Javert."

Javert gave him a nod. "Pontmercy."

“Shall we see you at the house later?” asked Cosette.

“Yes,” Valjean agreed. “We won’t be long.”

He kissed her and waited as Marius helped her into the cab, before handing Sophie up to her. Sophie gave a loud wail in protest and abruptly threw her weight forward, head down and arms out, reaching for Valjean.

“Oh, Sophie,” Cosette groaned, readjusting her hold on the child. “She needs a nap before dinner.”

"I wish she'd stop doing that," said Marius, "I think she'll turn my hair as white as yours, Father!"

Valjean shook his head and held a hand out to Sophie. “I will see you again soon, little one," he said. She grasped his hand and smiled, not understanding, but glad of his attention. Valjean mirrored the smile helplessly.

"Being a grandfather suits you," said Javert when the cab had driven off.

Valjean breathed in deeply; the cold air chilled his nose and lungs, and a deep calm settled itself in his bones.

"Come," he said to Javert. "Where shall we walk today?"


	3. 1835

It was a quiet morning, early and still; Valjean was drifting somewhere in the space between sleeping and waking, when, distantly, he heard a soft creak, like a door opening, or a floorboard bending, followed by silence. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open. Another pair of eyes stared back at him, only inches away.

With a jolt of alarm, he sat upright—and then began to laugh.

“Sophie! Dear child!”

Sophie peered up at him curiously, in bare feet and a nightgown, her doll Aimée tucked under one arm. She was now a child of not quite two years, big enough to toddle and climb all manner of things she should not climb, but still too young to speak more than a rare word or two.

“Pépé!” cried the child happily. This word she knew well.

“Well, good morning! You gave me quite a surprise just now.”

The little girl grinned in response and tossed Aimée up onto the bed. Grabbing two fistfuls of the coverlet, she began, with difficulty, to climb. Valjean observed the struggle with fond amusement, his head tilted to one side. “So,” he mused, “you’ve escaped from your crib and have immediately sought me out as an accomplice, is that it?”

With a frustrated huff, the child abruptly ceased her struggle—for it seemed that despite her efforts, she lacked both the height and the coordination to manage it—and instead thrust both arms out in front of her, turning her big brown eyes to Valjean expectantly.

“Yes, all right,” he said, chuckling, and lifted her in his arms. Just as her toes grazed the bedspread, he propelled her upward, high into the air; she threw her head back with a peal of laughter. Grinning, he set her down beside him.

“Again!” she cried, another of her favorite words.

He lifted her again. And again. After a few minutes of this, Valjean laughed and said, “Oh, Sophie, even your Pépé needs his rest sometimes.”

The child shook her head in outright denial of this claim; in doing so, she caught sight of the window, and was immediately transfixed. It was snowing, gently but steadily. _“Oh,”_ said the child. She looked at Valjean excitedly, pointing to the window.

“Yes, I see,” he said. “Very pretty.”

Sophie pushed herself to her feet and took a few wobbly steps toward the window. Valjean watched her carefully, his arms raised to catch her should she fall too close to the edge. “Do you know what day it is today, Sophie?” he murmured. She glanced back at him quizzically; he smiled. “It’s Christmas Day.” She appeared to contemplate this. Then suddenly, her gaze moved to something behind him. “Maman!” she shouted happily.

Turning, Valjean found Cosette watching from the doorway in her dressing gown, a strangely pensive smile on her lips. Whatever the expression was, it was gone a moment later, replaced with mock severity.

“There you are, my little imp.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Have you been bothering poor Grandpère?”

“Maman!” Sophie repeated, annoyed now; her mother had not come to join in the fun, as she had perhaps hoped, but to take her away. Grabbing hold of Valjean’s arm, she attempted to hide herself behind him. Cosette rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. “Thank you for keeping her occupied, Papa.”

“She's no trouble,” said Valjean, twisting to pull the girl forth from her hiding place; she gave a high protesting squeal which quickly dissolved into giggles as he began tickling her. Her laughter was contagious; almost at once, Valjean was grinning and laughing with her.

He heard Cosette come closer and sit down in the chair beside them. “It is good to hear you laugh again," she said.

Valjean's hands stilled.

What should he make of this remark? What could he say? There was little time to ponder this, however, for Sophie took immediate advantage of this lull and pushed herself to her feet, running for the edge of the bed with remarkable speed. “Careful!” cried Valjean. Utterly without fear, the toddler flung herself from the bed, laughing uproariously when two pairs of hands caught her mid-air.

“Oh, Sophie,” Cosette groaned, gathering the girl up in her arms. “One of these days someone will fail to catch you, and you will see why we don’t laugh with you when you do these things.” Turning to Valjean, she said, “We will see you at breakfast?”

“Yes,” said Valjean. He wondered suddenly if she still worried he would not eat on his own. What an ordeal he had put her through. He tried not to let this thought show on his face. 

“Come, Sophie, we must get you dressed!" said Cosette. "You have that lovely new Christmas dress to wear.” 

"Don't forget Aimée," said Valjean, picking up the doll which had been left beside him on the bed. It was the doll he had bought for Sophie two years ago. Sophie took it back from him with a wide smile and hugged it to her chest.

"Oh, _thank you,_ Grandpère!" said Cosette. 

"Thank, Pépé!" Sophie echoed.

Throwing Valjean one last quick smile, Cosette carried Sophie out from the room, closing the door behind her.


	4. 1839

Christmas at the house on Rue des Fille-du-Calvaire was a grand affair that year. Marius and Cosette had acquired many friends since their wedding, many through Marius’ work—for he had resumed his studies and begun to practice law after all, even with money no longer a concern—and had entered into a large, bourgeoisie social circle. These friends, and numerous friends and acquaintances of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Gillenormand, came to dine and drink and dance at the Pontmercy home that December 25th.

Jean Valjean, who had assured Cosette and Marius that he thought the party was a splendid idea, remained in attendance for as long as he could bear, which was not much more than a quarter hour, after which he retreated into the dim and dusty store room alone, with a book and a candle, and sank into one of the armchairs. He was several chapters into his book when someone else came into the room.

“There you are.” Valjean looked up from his book, and smiled; it was Javert. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“You always manage to find me.” Javert paused, going very still. Valjean winced. “That was a terrible joke, I’m sorry.”

Javert stood pulling at his whiskers a moment before continuing forward, grabbing a chair by the arm and dragging it close to Jean Valjean. “It is good to know, actually,” said Javert, “that those days are distant enough, in your mind, that you can make light of them.”

“I trust you completely,” said Valjean, “if that is what you mean.”

Javert’s expression was ruminative as he sat back in the chair. “I still wonder how you can,” he said. He shook his head. “What an idiot I was. What a terror.”

Valjean placed his hand over his friend’s, and gently squeezed. “You were always a brave and honest man, at heart.”

“I was neither,” said Javert firmly. “I nearly died because I was not brave or honest enough to face—well, to face anything. God, the world, myself. You.”

Valjean looked down at their hands. Javert did not often speak of how close he came to suicide the night of the barricades. Not anymore. During those first few months, years ago, when they had first begun to finally know one another, the two of them had spent many a night talking late into the twilight hours, of bleak and painful things, but now they had mostly put those topics aside. Still, sometimes old ghosts crept back into their conversations.

“But you did not,” said Valjean at last. “And I have you as well as God to thank for that.”

Javert’s hand shifted beneath Valjean’s, turning palm-up to thread their fingers together. 

It was so strange, he thought, so incredible, to have Javert as a friend, to have discovered in him a kind of kinship; here was another soul risen from perdition, a brother come to join him and kneel at his side before God. 

Valjean was not sure that Javert understood how much his friendship meant to him. He doubted he would ever find a way to convey it in words or gestures, but looking now at Javert's melancholy profile, he wished he could. "I do thank God, Javert," he said quietly. "Everyday. I can't imagine these last few years without you." He paused, casting about for something more to say, before adding only, "You give me strength.”

Javert looked up at him, his eyes full of tenderness and wonder. “That is very odd,” he said, “as all my strength comes from you.”

A curious twinge in Valjean’s chest made him squeeze Javert’s hand again, even as he turned his face away with inexplicable embarrassment. 

There was a sudden clamor just outside the room. Both men looked up curiously as the door was flung open, and in came little Christine, the younger Pontmercy daughter, running breathlessly, laughing hysterically, her shiny black shoes clacking loudly against the floor. She was four years old. Seeing her grandfather and his friend Monsieur Javert, she stopped, gasping for breath with her hands on her knees, and directing a wild-eyed look to them, announced, “She’s coming!”

“Who is coming, dear?” asked Valjean.

“ _Sophie!_ Hide me, Pépé!”

"For heaven's sake," muttered Javert.

Valjean laughed, letting go of Javert’s hand and standing up. “Let’s see,” he said, looking around the room. A worn, dusty sheet covered a heap of old furniture in the corner; lifting the sheet, Valjean peaked in and looked around before beckoning the little girl over. “Under there."

Christine’s eyes widened. “It's dark!” she whispered, taking a step back. The sound of approaching footsteps made her gasp and look at Valjean. Understanding, he crouched down to go into the sheet-cave himself, dirtying the knees and seat of his fine trousers. “Quickly now!” he whispered. Christine followed and folded herself into his lap as he let the sheet fall down behind them. Outside, they could hear Sophie come in and question Javert.

“Did my little sister come this way? We’re playing a game where she hides and I find her.”

“I see,” said Javert. “No, I don't recall seeing her.”

Christine giggled; Valjean pressed a finger to his lips. Christine nodded and covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes bright with glee.

"Where is Pépé?" asked Sophie.

"How should I know, mademoiselle? I simply came in here by myself to read..." There was a pause. "This book. Perhaps you might try looking elsewhere.” 

Another pause, longer this time. Valjean imagined Javert subtlety indicating the hiding place to Sophie. As Valjean had jumped in to assist Christine, he supposed it would only be fair for Javert to help Sophie.

Suddenly the sheet was pulled away; it billowed out in a cloud of dust before falling to a rumpled heap on the floor, leaving Valjean and Christine exposed among a graveyard of old clocks and paintings and chairs. Christine screamed. Valjean laughed.

“Found you!” cried Sophie triumphantly. Behind her, Javert shrugged innocently, an easy smile on his face.

 

Later that night, when the sun had been down for hours and many of the guests had left, Valjean and Cosette made their way up the stairs to the girls’ bedroom, Cosette carrying Christine, Valjean carrying Sophie. (Marius and Javert were currently engaged in a debate with a lawyer friend of Marius', concerning law and ethics, fueled in part by the abundance of wine which had been made available for the party). Both girls were fast asleep.

Reaching the bed, Valjean bent slowly to pull the covers back. Cosette lowered Christine down to one side of the bed and Valjean laid Sophie down beside her. Together, they pulled the blankets back up, tucking the two girls in. 

“Dead to the world,” whispered Cosette with amusement. “I’m surprised they lasted as long as they did. They’ve had such a busy day.”

“Yes,” agreed Valjean, brushing dark curls back from Sophie’s forehead. He kissed her, then leaned across the bed to kiss Christine as well. 

Cosette was lingering in the doorway, gazing in on the nursery lovingly. “Look at them,” she said, lightly touching Valjean's arm. “They had a good time today, I think. Sophie told me you and Monsieur Javert played games with them for hours.”

“Lies. Two grown men like us?”

Cosette laughed. “Of course, how could I think such a thing?” Turning back to the bedroom, she added, in a softer, wistful voice, “They’ve grown so big. It feels like yesterday Sophie was still only a baby—everyone says things like that, don’t they, but it’s true. I know it now. Will it all go by this fast?”

Valjean’s gaze drifted from the girls back to Cosette. His little Cosette—a grown woman, married, with two children, nearly the same age her mother had been when Valjean knew her. "Faster," he said. 

"Hmm," said Cosette. Quietly, she closed the bedroom door.

“I remember when you were about that small,” said Valjean suddenly. “You were only two years older than Sophie when I found you.” 

Cosette looked up at him with surprise. He never spoke of that. “Oh,” she whispered. 

Valjean stared down the length of the empty hallway as he continued. “You were wandering in the woods with a bucket full of water; it must have been twice your weight... I took you away from those people, and we came to Paris the next day. Sixteen years ago, today.”

“I think I remember that,” whispered Cosette. "It's hard to say. It's all just... impressions. They could be dreams."

“I will tell you all of it, sometime, if that is what you want. But what I remember most,” he said, “is how happy you made me. How happy we were together. I had been alone for... a long time, before that.” 

“You mean—”

“In prison, yes.” His eyes squeezed shut for a moment; Cosette touched his shoulder gently. His chest felt tight, but he wanted to tell her this. “And after that, too. Even when I was mayor, I thought—I hoped that I might be allowed a peaceful existence—but I thought I would live and die alone, you see. Who could ever know me? Who could I trust? And then you came, Cosette, and I—”

He had not expected to cry; he had somehow thought all of this far enough behind him now, that he would not.

“Oh, Papa!” Cosette flung her arms around him.

He buried his face in her hair, and said, in a voice thick with tears. “You saved me, then, you know. You do know that, don't you? And now you've saved me again. I was ready to die," he said, and Cosette hugged him tighter. He dropped his voiced to a whisper. "And you came back for me. I had no idea that... that there could be so much _more,_ still, so much love. To think that I could be a part of that! That I could be this happy?"

He could say no more.

After while, he took a deep stuttering breath and pulled away from her embrace. She was crying now too. He reached up to brush a tear from her cheek. Cosette smiled tremulously, and then laughed, swiping at her face. “My guests will wonder what’s happened.”

Valjean eyes widened with alarm. “Of course, yes. Oh, I’m sorry. I—”

She swatted his arm. “You think it matters to me? I was only joking.” She sniffed, shook her head and hugged him again, resting her head on his shoulder. Valjean felt himself relax. 

“I love you so much, Papa,” said Cosette. “I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re here.”

 _So am I_ , thought Valjean, wondering at himself, and he kissed the top of her head.

The walls he had sensed around him for so many years had evaporated; life expanded all around him now, out to the horizon, stretching sublimely into the future. There was so much he wanted to do. He wanted to see the children grow. He wanted to carry them on his shoulders, and to chase them in circles through the yard, as if he himself were a child again. He wanted to spend more quiet evenings in the parlor with Cosette and Marius, reading philosophy and poetry as the sun went down, and after that, by candlelight. He wanted to walk with Javert through every street in Paris, and through other, far-off places too, and to take Javert's hand in his and puzzle over the giddiness, the strangely boyish joy such contact brought.

There was no wistfulness in these visions, no sadness or guilt lurking at the edges of this dream. He felt that there were many years left in him still, and he knew with a sudden clarity that there was nothing he would like more than to have the chance to live them.


End file.
